


Do it for Science

by squidmemesinc



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Mildly Dubious Consent, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Pollen, Sort Of, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tentacle Monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-03-16 23:09:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13646370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidmemesinc/pseuds/squidmemesinc
Summary: “Ratchet, Doc,Friend— Have I ever mentioned howsincerelyappreciative I am of your dedication to your patients, to the medical field, toscience?I consider you a colleague, really. A very esteemed colleague. Moreso than Perceptor. A colleague with an incredible sense of honor and integrity who sometimes—often, even—generouslyputs others' needs before his own. I really admire that about you, and I also admire how you never, ever go spreading around tales of the incredibly asinine things people have done to themselves medically in the interest of furthering science and bettering life for all Cybertronian kind and instead put aside all judgments you may or may not but probably don’t have or at least would keep to yourself in the interest of…helping them out?”Ratchet fixes the mad scientist with a very stern look. “I really hope you’re not asking me what I think you’re asking me.”“I could beg if that’s what would do it for you.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was trying to take a break from my [long fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13424556/chapters/30764364) bc I'm getting stuck and I wrote the.....crackiest thing. 
> 
> I don't know if this is too weird but that's failed to stop me before and it failed to stop me this time, so here it is.

Ratchet is actually surprised at how few times he’s been called up to Brainstorm’s lab under the guise of ‘a life-threatening medical emergency.’ It just seems like something that should have occupied more of his time as the Lost Light’s operative medical professional, given Brainstorm’s line of work, along with the fact that he’s...Brainstorm.

What really surprises him about this time, however, is that when he enters the lab as requested, he finds Brainstorm leaning casually against a workbench with one hand jauntily resting on his hip. Or rather, assuming a position he must hope appears casual but really betrays quite a bit of effort and preparation for Ratchet’s arrival, all of which he promptly loses when the door opens, and a second later he collapses in a heap on the floor.

Ratchet had been prepared for that one second to give Brainstorm a very stern lecture that would betray only a fraction of his irritation at being called up here under false pretenses, but given how Brainstorm is so violently shaking as he tries to push himself up onto his hands and knees, he figures he’ll save it for later.

“What the hell did you do to yourself this time?” Ratchet demands, failing to completely disguise his anxious exasperation at whatever recklessness has no doubt caused this particular ailment. He tries to help pick Brainstorm up off the floor, but his joints are unsteady and he slips a few times before Ratchet even manages to turn him over. He’s exceptionally warm, too, with his cooling fans running at the highest setting. Ratchet’s already running through possible ailments, and the list is short and unappealing.

Brainstorm lets out a breathy laugh that holds a tinge of desperation to find the situation at all amusing. “It’s a—long story,” he admits. “Hope you’ve got time, though, because—otherwise it’ll be pretty weird of me to just ask.”

Ratchet continues trying to diagnose him throughout his stilted speech, but knowing the dangerous, repulsive, and downright _weird_ things Brainstorm makes it his business to work with, he figures it’s in the best interest of his own safety to listen. “Just tell me what you did.”

It seems like the focus is costing him a lot of effort, and it takes him a moment to collect his thoughts because he keeps pulling in hard vents as he tries to start to speak, and then intermittently through when he does manage to. “I was experimenting with the effects of—organic venoms—and the effects on Cybertronian nervous systems to—uh, various effects. I’ll circle back.”

The strained speech, the vents, the roaring fans, his nearly useless limbs, and the nonstop _shaking_ all indicate Brainstorm’s exerted a tremendous amount of physical activity, but doing _what_ … Ratchet’s list is shrinking steadily.

Brainstorm flips his wrist over so Ratchet can see it and points to something small and—indeed, organic-looking—embedded tightly in the circuitry. Once he’s sure Ratchet has seen it, he puts a finger to it that nearly obscures the whole thing and starts massaging the thing’s body (if you can call it that, since it just looks like a little blob) with what looks like a well-practiced routine. “I got a little impatient trying to get—results and may have adjusted the variables a little _too_ high—and then put them to the test.” He pinches his thumb against the finger and the tiny organic thing comes loose and seems to lose some of its structure, becoming more liquid than solid. He can faintly see there are tiny little glowing tendrils attached to it that now hang limp as the thing continues to melt into goo.

“Didn’t seem to hurt you too much to get that off,” Ratchet observes, feeling a growing sense of apprehension. “Didn’t seem to hurt it either. They’re not...alive, right?”

“They’re not sentient—it’s just tissue,” Brainstorm nearly gasps, giving another shudder. “And no, they don’t hurt—at least not on your wrist.”

“I’m getting a very bad feeling about this,” the doctor admits, ticking another thing off his list. “You said you’d circle back to the effects.”

Brainstorm struggles to sit up a little further, grabbing onto the edge of the workbench and trying to pull himself up. Ratchet assists and they manage to get him standing again, though he still wobbles consistently, particularly about the legs and torso. Brainstorm doesn’t look at him when he speaks. “Uh, namely, charge—of a—very specific nature. A sexual nature.”

“And when you mentioned test subjects…?” Ratchet trails off.

Brainstorm does look at him again and there’s a guilty smile in his optics. “Do you see anyone else in here?”

Ratchet squeezes his denta together for a brief moment and prepares to say something _calmly._ “Do you realize—”

Brainstorm starts to slip down towards the floor again and grips Ratchet’s arms with a growing desperation. “Ratchet, Doc, _Friend—_ Have I ever mentioned how _sincerely_ appreciative I am of your dedication to your patients, to the medical field, to _science?_ I consider you a colleague, really. A very esteemed colleague. Moreso than Perceptor. A colleague with an incredible sense of honor and integrity who sometimes—often, even— _generously_ puts others’ needs before his own. I really admire that about you, and I also admire how you never, _ever_ go spreading around tales of the incredibly asinine things people have done to themselves medically in the interest of furthering science and bettering life for all Cybertronian kind and instead put aside all judgments you may or may not but probably don’t have or at least would keep to yourself in the interest of…helping them out?”

He says this all very, very fast, getting faster towards the end until he finally has to pause and pull in one more shaky breath. His golden optics are very serious and visibly...vulnerable. As a doctor, it’s a look Ratchet isn’t unused to getting, but that combined with finally piecing together the realization of what has Brainstorm so hot and bothered almost has what he would deem an unprofessional effect on himself.

Ratchet fixes the mad scientist with a very stern look. “I really hope you’re not asking me what I think you’re asking me.”

“I could beg if that’s what would do it for you.”

The doctor frowns and hesitates, looking around the lab. “If we could get you to the med bay, I could—”

“Why do you think I called you here?” Brainstorm nearly snaps at him before shuddering back into submission. “I didn’t do this totally—without precaution. There’s a special containment field in this room that interacts with the sensors in them and prevents them from—releasing too much venom at once. A little is— _huff,_ fun, sure, but if you get too much at once it can result in permanent paralysis.”

Of course, normally Ratchet would want to take a sample on his own to confirm this, but given the state of things he figures there isn’t time to be second guessing Brainstorm. Besides, as little as he would trust Brainstorm with literally anything else, he figures science is one area he’s probably not often wrong about, even if he tends to do completely stupid things with it, like _this._ But he still has reservations. “You haven’t mentioned what they’d do to me. It’s hardly productive if we both get taken out by your crazy sex toys.”

“Ouch.” Brainstorm puts a hand to his spark mockingly. “You’re safe. I pre-programmed them with my—energy signature.” His legs give another hardy wobble and he sinks down again until Ratchet pulls him up. “Precautions, remember?”

Ratchet falters again, running low on protests. “And you really think the only solution is for me to...finger you?”

“Oh, no. I already got the ones that could be reached with fingers.”

Ratchet cocks his head to the side in disbelief, but even as he said it, he figured that probably wasn’t the aim. It was worth a shot.

Brainstorm pulls out of his grasp and leans his aft onto the workbench. “Well, if it’s such a _chore_ then forget it. I’m sure I can—come up with a much less safe way to get that much friction that d-deep—”

He shudders again, sliding forward so his legs are slightly spread, and looking down now, Ratchet can see the lubricant leaking from his recently resealed panel, as well as the telling scuffed paint on the inside of his thighs. There’s a tremor that rattles his sleek teal frame visibly so that even the tips of his wings are trembling, and despite his words, there’s still a pleading look in his eye. If Ratchet were a different kind of mech, he can see this image laid out before him being irresistable.

However, Ratchet has higher standards than that, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say more pressing concerns surrounding the circumstances. “You’re really okay with this? You could have gotten anyone, if you just wanted someone to spike you.” Although, as he says ‘anyone’ he wonders how far just being pretty would get him.

It looks like it’s taking a colossal amount of focusing power again not to grind his fingers into himself again, to what little effect that would have, but Brainstorm continues to resist and just squeezes the table instead. “Like I said, you can keep a secret. I—trust you.”

Ratchet sighs, starts to speak, and thinks better of it. He steps in between Brainstorm’s legs and places his hands on his thighs. Brainstorm gives another shudder and spreads them further, just as his valve panel snaps open again and he groans, reaching for the medic. “You realize _I’m_ trusting _you_ to know what you’re talking about, and that this is going to work with no lasting damage to either of us.”

“Yeah. Yes.”

Brainstorm grabs at Ratchet’s arms, his hands, like he wants to put them on himself but is too nervous to break that boundary. Ratchet pretends he hasn’t noticed and and moves them up, trailing over his hips and stroking what he knows are universally sensitive spots on the paneling. He shudders into the touch again and seems to relax for the briefest moment before he’s talking again.

“I just wanted to make sure you know how _deeply appreciative_ I—”

“Brainstorm,” Ratchet says, addressing him coolly now, as if he were just any other standard patient, though this is far outside the boundaries of his job description and they both know it. “If you want me to do this, you should probably stop talking.” He’s now actually trying not to be rude, which is a restraint he rarely exercises, even sometimes in professional settings.

“Sorry, I tend to talk more when I’m— _rrgh_ —” A wave of arousal hits him and his hands go to Ratchet’s shoulders, and his legs clamp around Ratchet’s thighs, an instinctive reflex to pull in this ready source of heat and relief from it in to him.

Inches from the mask, Ratchet eyes it and decides to offer a solution to both their problems. “I can think of a way to occupy your mouth,” he tries in a low, husky tone, flicking his optics up from where it would be to Brainstorm’s optics to check for a response to his suggestion. In a separate part of his brain, he’s aware of the absurdity that he’s actually using charm reserved for very specific circumstances on _Brainstorm_.

The scientist gives a nervous little giggle. “Oh wow, you’re actually kind of hot,” he rambles. He seems to realize the implications of what he’s said and tries to change the subject by lifting a palm to grip the mask, catching it as the latches pop off. He sets it shakily on the table, pushing it away, and seems to be struggling not to smile or look nervous, which results in alternating between both. “I mean, yeah, go ahead,” he says, more quietly this time.

Ratchet spends a second in awe that Brainstorm is actually fairly handsome, even if he’s trying to cope with whatever sudden shyness is gripping him at not having his usual crutch to hide behind. And for the first time, in this brief moment of silence and hesitation and vulnerability, Ratchet actually doesn’t think he’d mind kissing him, and so he shuts his optics, leans in, and does just that.

Brainstorm is still for the moment where their lips make first contact, and then gradually responds with a starving hunger. He locks his arms around the medic’s neck and, now that he’s not being watched, hugs his legs tighter around Ratchet’s frame and grinds against him. He’s eager for Ratchet’s every moment, encouraging him to a fiercer enthusiasm as he tries to pull Ratchet deeper into his mouth, clearly aching to be filled in some way, if not another.

Ratchet obliges, diving into him with all the tongue and teeth he’s asking for, bracing one hand against the workbench and curling the other around Brainstorm to guide him up into him. He squeezes his denta around the thick cable running through his lip and is rewarded by a loud, sharp moan and Brainstorm’s back arching up and pressing their chests together, and, okay, now he’s really getting into it.

The medic shifts closer, feeling interest beginning to stir in his array as tentatively grinds his pelvis against Brainstorm’s exposed valve. Brainstorm’s whole body shudders again and he clamps his arms tighter around his shoulders, sucking Ratchet’s tongue into his mouth and letting out another moan. Ratchet changes it over to a steady motion, somewhat forgetting it’s Brainstorm whose mouth he’s exploring without abandon and settling into more primal urges. He’s eager and pliant and willing, and that’s more than enough to captivate his attention.

They continue kissing and grinding on each other and gradually an increasingly fidgety Brainstorm sneaks a hand off Ratchet’s shoulder and down towards his hip, creeping in towards his spike panel. Ratchet unthinkingly lets the panel snap back and his spike pressurizes into the small space between them, brushing up against Brainstorm’s hyper-charged node as it does and making him whine. “Oh, _please,_ Doc,” he breathes, shifting his hips desperately, but so weakened from his own creation that he has trouble getting leverage.

A low growl rips from Ratchet’s vocalizer, surprising him when he remembers his audience, but Brainstorm doesn’t seem to mind. He reaches for a more steady hold when Ratchet adjusts him again, bowing him back over the bench so his thighs fall more open on the table where his legs are looped around Ratchet’s waist. Ratchet guides his spike up against Brainstorm’s ready, waiting valve and thrusts into him without further hesitation.

Immediately Ratchet realizes why Brainstorm has been so agitated and squirmy. He can feel a sort of jelly-like resistance that squeezes his spike near the top of his valve that circles all the way around and even stops him from pushing fully in. He gasps at the increased pressure on the sensitive head of his spike even as Brainstorm’s calipers flex torturously over the rest of him, trying to urge him in further.

He gives a shudder of his own now. “You can’t tell me that’s not— _nng_ —hurting you,” he grunts out in disbelief.

Brainstorm tries to reply, apparently, but it comes out as a moan. When he tries again the same thing happens and his legs tighten again around Ratchet’s hips again, throwing his head back. Finally he looks back at Ratchet with his optics as intense as he’s ever seen them, and manages to gasp out, “It feels so good I can’t tell the difference. Now please—for the love of each and every god— _fuck me now.”_

Ratchet lowers him onto the table as gently as he can manage, and still he slips. It makes a terrible, loud sound, but Brainstorm doesn’t seem to mind as the doctor grabs him by the hips and starts to slam his spike into him. Brainstorm is gripping opposite ends of the bench to avoid slipping off it and achieving a volume Ratchet’s only been so unfortunate as to hear upon passing Rodimus’ quarters at the wrong time.

Brainstorm clearly either went to town on himself _hard_ before Ratchet’s arrival, or these things he’s created summon charge to truly dangerous levels, because he’s so warm and wet and responsive that even with these things stuff in him, Ratchet feels like he’s cutting through him like air. Which is no easy feat given how hard Brainstorm’s valve is gripping him, squeezing him, rippling over his spike and trying to coax him to overload prematurely. He never would have thought, but he supposes he’s also never fragged a science experiment before.

It’s a little weird, feeling these soft…he harbors a strong objection to calling them _creatures_ , because Brainstorm had reassured him they weren’t alive, but these little semi-organic devices pumping their serum into him, bursting and adding to the slickness inside him as enough friction wears them down. It doesn’t take much in the end before they’re all liquified, save for the one clinging to his ceiling node. Brainstorm is babbling a mixture of swears (some in alien languages even Ratchet isn’t familiar with) and the word ‘Yes’ as his valve continues to pulse around Ratchet’s spike. He pounds into this one over and over, but because of the angle it must not be rubbing it right, because it stays in place.

“Dammit, Brainstorm,” Ratchet gasps, trying to thrust in at an angle while refraining from tipping into climax, “you _really_ need to find better test subjects.”

“What—like, more your type?” Brainstorm quips back. “As if you’re not—riding the edge.” He sounds far too smug, considering his earlier nervousness. He must have gotten over it, because he sounds just as desperate for release as Ratchet is, and still willing to crack jokes through it.

Ratchet groans in response, opting for speed now over angle on this stubborn article. “What I mean is—” He slams in and holds his hips to Brainstorm’s just for a second, making him yelp, “—don’t—test—on—your _self!”_ He feels the thing burst into liquid in another shock of charge that reverberates back into him and makes overload an undeniable necessity.

It feels like an hour later that he feels able to move again, and that’s mostly just to lift his head. Brainstorm is groping for his mask, which has somehow managed not to get jostled off the bench, and he quietly clicks it back into place. “Uh, Ratch, d’you mind?” he says quietly, sounding a little more like his _rude, sarcastic self_ now that he’s got his little shield to hide behind again. Typical.

Ratchet is embarrassed to realize his spike is still half-pressurized inside Brainstorm’s twitching valve, and he withdraws hastily, clearing his throat and turning away to give them both a bit of privacy to clean up. When he finally turns back, Brainstorm is kneeling on the workbench tapping furiously into a datapad.

“I can’t _believe—”_ Ratchet starts, but is instantly shushed. He stands quietly to the side and lets his temper build in him while Brainstorm finishes his notes.

He gives the datapad a few more thoughtful taps before he lifts it up to his face, swinging his legs over the side of the table, then finally lowers it. “Okay, now you have my attention. You’re welcome, it’s very valuable.”

“You are—an _idiot_ ,” Ratchet fumes, throwing his hands out.

Brainstorm mutters, “I’m actually very smart—”

“Yeah, sure, and you’ll have plenty of time to convince me of that during the extremely long series of tests I’m going to run on you to make sure you haven’t burned out any vital systems,” Ratchet says, feeling justified in bullying him now that he seems to have at least mentally recovered from his ordeal. “You and your blasted ‘precautions,’” he mutters.

“Listen, I promise there’s no risk. I work with much more dangerous stuff on a daily basis than a little organic poison.” He seems to realize almost instantly that the colloquial use of the word ‘poison’ might not help his point the way he’d hoped it would.

Ratchet advances forward, and he grabs Brainstorm by the arm and pushes him back against the workbench in a position reminiscent of their activities a few minutes prior. And it’s clear that Brainstorm recognizes this. Ratchet leans in close to Brainstorm’s mask and locks optics with him so he has nowhere to avert his eyes. He keeps his hold on Brainstorm’s wrist, and though it’s loose now, it could easily be tightened. His main intention is to keep his thumb over a primary fuel line in it to get a closer read on Brainstorm and ensure now that he isn’t going to try to pull any other shenanigans, something he’s sure Brainstorm, the self-proclaimed genius, is aware of.

“No, _you_ listen, Brainstorm. _Colleague._ Doctors don’t _frag_ ailments out of their patients. I helped you with your little experiment against my own better judgements—breaking from the norm of my own _scientific protocols._ And far be it from me to hold anything over anyone—blackmail isn’t my style. But I figure if you’re so _appreciative_ of me, and my work, and consider me such a valuable colleague, you won’t mind coming down to the med bay with me to help me confirm that we aren’t _both about to die from some kind of side effect of your inability to find appropriate test subjects other than yourself like a_ **_normal fragging scientist_ **.”

There’s a beat of silence as Ratchet watches his words sink into to Brainstorm’s thick plating, but not deep enough before he starts to respond with what Ratchet can tell from his wrist will be a protest. “I—”

“Bup, bup!” Ratchet interrupts. “ _Listen_.” He pulls back slightly off his intimidation stance and gradually drops Brainstorm’s wrist.

“Uh,” Brainstorm says quietly. “Do you want to get a drink after?”

Ratchet stares at him. “What?”

“Do you…want…to get a drink after? With me?”

“Are you asking me out now?” Ratchet is floored.

“No.” A pause. “Okay, yeah. So, what? You’re kinda hot.” He’s fidgeting a lot with his hands as he admits this.

Ratchet lifts a hand to his face and rubs at the center of his optic ridge. Despite the wrangling he knows is going to be required to get Brainstorm to submit to his tests, he does find he’s been replaying the better part of their time together today with an interested frequency on some distant part of his processor. He sighs, giving in to a ridiculous whim. “Sure,” he says, noting the way Brainstorm’s wings tip up with a little bit of hopeful excitement. “But first, tests.” And they sag back down. “I’m off in four hours,” he adds with a smile, “we should be done in five.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone had mentioned wanting more of this, and I had actually originally considered making this two chapters so I kept it on my radar and ended up writing something after all in an attempt to break out of my writer's block.
> 
> Let me know if this should be tagged in any particular way... I'm kind of at a loss looking at it.

Just shy of five hours later, which is a testament to Ratchet’s ability and efficiency more than anything, especially in light of Brainstorm’s constant attempts to derail and distract from his tests, he’s reassured himself that both he and Brainstorm are free from ailments, disease, or imminent fatality. Brainstorm is eager to hop off the berth, but as soon as he makes a move towards doing so, Ratchet is quick to put an arm out to block his way. Brainstorm’s legs dangle off the side of the berth and he grasps one hand in the other. He’s clearly caught notice of the look on Ratchet’s face, and understands that it doesn’t bode well for him.

“C’mon, Ratch, you said yourself, we’re all clear.”

“I know what I said,” Ratchet replies coolly. “No lasting effects from the poison, no structural damage, no hidden ailments. It seems like you knew what you were doing.”

Brainstorm bristles slightly at the indication that there was ever any doubt, his wings twitching upwards with indignation. “Of course I knew—”

“ _But I wonder—_ ” Ratchet continues loudly through his interruption. “About that forcefield you mentioned. The one that was supposed to keep the effect contained. That has a lot of practical medical applications, I’m sure you realize. I’d like to know more about it.”

“Ah,” Brainstorm mutters, tapping a finger against his thigh. “I’d be happy to whip something up for your specific needs, as a tribute to my thanks, of course, but I’d need a couple of days to tweak it.”

“Surely if you have time to be messing around with aphrodisiacs, you have time to construct something that would be able to save numerous lives,” Ratchet insists, needling at the point he’s sure he’ll win. “I can speak to Rodimus, without going into details, if you’re so low on things to do that you need to come up with ways to entertain yourself. See if we can make it an official request.”

“Entertained you too, didn’t I?” Brainstorm mutters while Ratchet is talking, perhaps thinking this will keep him from hearing.

Ratchet’s lips flatten into a pursed thin line. “Brainstorm.” He just stares, familiar enough with Brainstorm’s type to know he’s already cornered and will break given enough time.

Brainstorm has the advantage of having much of his face hidden, but unfortunately for him, his eyes are expressive enough to be an obvious giveaway. He glances around the medbay, scratching at a scuff on his thigh in his unease and wearing away the paint. But with Ratchet blocking his only exit from the berth and this private room of the medbay, he knows he has to admit to what Ratchet hasn’t accused him of.

“So, I feel obliged to tell you, since you’ve helped me out with my experiment and done such a thorough, detailed, _long_ examination in the interest of my health—and yours, of course, that there actually, I should say, probably—well, definitely, no way around it, I suppose—”

Ratchet coughs and continues to scowl at him.

“There was never a containment field!”

Ratchet shifts his disapproving posture to be slightly more intimidating, but says nothing.

“Gotcha?” Brainstorm tries, throwing finger guns at Ratchet in an attempt to play it off as a joke.

“Try again,” Ratchet says.

“How did you even know?” Brainstorm asks, bewildered.

Ratchet debates whether he wants to answer or bully him more, but supposes the former begets the latter. “It was a hunch. You said it was supposed to keep them from releasing too much poison, but I tested the samples and the saturation levels were high. 100% high.”

“Very thorough.” Brainstorm mutters this, so it doesn’t even sound much like a compliment. Not that compliments are what Ratchet is after.

“You took advantage of the situation and _tricked me_ into having sex with you,” Ratchet says, losing a bit of his composure and hissing at Brainstorm both because he’s angry and because he doesn’t want First Aid, who is still lingering around the medbay outside of this private room, to hear.

“Whoa, okay,” Brainstorm holds up his hands in a quelling gesture, and for the first time he seems sincere. “It wasn’t like that. I really didn’t think I could make it to the medbay, I promise that was my only motivation.”

“Oh, well that makes it all better, then,” the doctor snaps.

“I mean, it wasn’t the only motivation!”

“Keep digging, Brainstorm, it’s almost amusing enough to make up for it.”

Brainstorm starts to say something else and then thinks better of it and cuts himself off by dropping his face into his hands. Ratchet imagines this doesn’t happen often, and he’d be impressed if he still wasn’t so irritated.

“Listen,” Brainstorm says, lifting his face from his hands abruptly. “I promise I wasn’t trying to take advantage of you. I really wasn’t. I didn’t think the experiment would turn out like that, and I hadn’t intended… I thought maybe it would turn out a different way. I wasn’t really in my right mind when I asked, since I knew that would be the easiest way…” He trails off hands and wings drooping. Ratchet folds his arms, but this time lets him ramble on. “I was trying not to be creepy when I said… Well, I mean, you already know I was interested. Am. But. I won’t, obviously, given the circumstances… Uh…”

Ratchet allows his expression to soften with a sigh. He entertains the possibility of bullying him a bit more or letting him go, and he finds it actually depresses him to think about Brainstorm looking even more dejected and cowed than he does now, especially given he’s just admitted to having a crush on him.  He hasn’t gotten what he wanted, but he supposes maybe Brainstorm has been enough today, between all the experimenting he did on himself and all that Ratchet subjected him too. “Alright, that’s enough.” He unfolds his arms.

“So… We’re good?”

“You didn’t exactly apologize, so I’ll have to think about it,” Ratchet says, noting how Brainstorm flinches, more likely from some instantaneous internal flogging than from anything in how Ratchet is holding his frame or speaking, “But I’m off duty and you clearly don’t want to be here either, so I’m giving up on it.”

“Wait, Doc—”

“Nope, time’s up.” Ratchet steps back and ushers him off the table. “You’ve had over five hours of my time today— You’re welcome, it’s very valuable. Go back to your lab. Or better yet, go back to your hab suite. You just poisoned yourself. Take a nap.” He shoos the other mech out of the private examination room, opening the door so First Aid is now certainly within hearing range and Brainstorm has no choice but to leave, uncharacteristically quiet and unwilling.

Ratchet watches him leave and stares at the door after it closes for a time. First Aid sidles up to him, and Ratchet gets the sense that Aid would love to know what just transpired. Brainstorm doesn’t spend a lot of time in the med bay, and he probably has his own theories as to why that time has suddenly shot up by five hours in one day. But instead, he just says, “Everything alright?”

“Fine,” Ratchet grunts. He’d thought about getting a drink at Swerve’s after all, but he thinks instead he might take his own advice and go recharge. “I’ll be in my hab suite if you need me.”

First Aid nods and returns to his business as Ratchet leaves the medbay.

*

He clocks about seven hours he’s been out before the door chimes and rouses him. He checks his comm and doesn’t find any messages, so it can’t have been an emergency, so he sluggishly trods over to the door and opens it. No one is there, but there’s a large, unmarked package on the ground. He looks up again and just barely manages to catch the glimpse of a jet wing disappearing behind the corner.

Ratchet sighs. He really doesn’t feel like chasing after anyone only a minute out of recharge, so he enters Brainstorm’s frequency into his comm and grumbles, “Come back here,” and waits. Brainstorm reappears from around the corner with his wings slumped as they had been when he’d left the medbay earlier.

He comes up and stands with the box between them. He seems to be actively keeping his hands at his sides in fists as he looks at Ratchet. He starts to talk, then thinks better of it—another rarity, Ratchet thinks. But he’s surprised when Brainstorm reaches up and pops the mask off his face with a soft click, and he’s wearing that same, but different expression of vulnerability on his face, clearly uncomfortable but dedicated to being honest. Ratchet feels a little contraction in his spark.

“I’m sorry,” Brainstorm says. “I don’t know what else to say that isn’t going to come off as an excuse, which is why I was going to drop this and leave you to it.”

It’s brief, but pointedly sincere. Ratchet thinks he might be smiling a little, even though he’s trying not to. “What is it?” he asks amicably.

“A containment field prototype. I need your help to configure it. Or First Aid. I thought you might want to look at it.”

Ratchet stares at him because he doesn’t actually know what to say to that. He must have gone straight back to his lab and worked nonstop to create something they’d only mentioned in passing. Ratchet hadn’t even necessarily been serious about creating it, since he wasn’t sure how one would go about doing that, but clearly Brainstorm had made some progress or he wouldn’t have bothered to bring it here.

Curious now, he picks up the crate and pops it open. There’s something else in there that catches his attention—a long, slim bottle full of some clear pink liquid with no label.

“That’s just a bonus,” Brainstorm says sheepishly, “if you want it. I dabbled with distillation a while ago, but I don’t know if it’s any good.”

“You made this?” Ratchet asks.

Brainstorm clicks his mask back on with another apologetic look, but Ratchet isn’t bothered. “Yeah.” He hesitates. “I wanted to buy you a drink after all. I mean, I didn’t exactly buy this, but.”

Ratchet looks stares at him again for a moment. Carefully, he closes up the crate and tucks it under one arm, turning sideways and gesturing inside his hab suite. “Well, then you should come in and try it.”

Brainstorm’s optics flare wide in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah. We can talk about this thing you’ve made until we get too drunk to think about science.”

Brainstorm looks a little giddy, which Ratchet takes as a sign that he’s overcoming his shame with this olive branch he’s offered him and returning to his usual jovial self. “You’d be surprised how long it takes me to get _too_ drunk for science.”

“Should I take that as a challenge?”

Ratchet can tell Brainstorm is smiling under his mask. He sort of hopes he’ll take it off again to drink so he’d have a chance of seeing what that looks like for himself.


End file.
